


Piano Man

by Ordinarily



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Billy Joel - Freeform, Dean is Bad at Feelings, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Heart-to-Heart, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Motel, Music, Orphaned, Stitches, hunts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 18:15:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15200600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ordinarily/pseuds/Ordinarily
Summary: They don't talk about the heavy stuff—no, that's reserved for Sam.





	Piano Man

Dean turned up the car stereo, effectively silencing their conversation. It was a gesture she watched him to do Sam countless times and even with the expectation of him eventually giving her a piece of the pie, it still made her expression go sour. Def Leppard was great and all, but they weren’t done here. That was the thing with Dean, though. If he wanted to put an end to the chat, it was over. He knew how to get someone to stop talking—was a master of subtle social cues (albeit death glares and a raise in voice did not often lend themselves to discretion)—though there were always those who thought they could push. And God help the poor suckers who were too dense to catch on. These were the people who found themselves backed into a corner by a snarling Dean Winchester practically foaming at the mouth, sorry they'd ever poked at the dam in the first place. She’d learned that lesson the hard way, so she curled her lips over her teeth and clenched her jaw.   

He was so unlike Sam in the back seat, who’d been knocked out cold during the fight and lulled like a dead carcass across the leather of the Impala. Even with a third of their party out on sick leave, she and Dean managed to pull through, and everyone made it out safe and sound. Mostly. She nearly wished it was him passed out in the back seat and she and Sam in the front, quietly discussing the night’s events or their future game plan. Everybody’s gears were in constant motion, analyzing and reanalyzing the perpetual game of chess. But at least Sam was willing to be vocal about his potential moves. 

She leaned back against the headrest, exhaustion settling in her bones. “You ever get tired of driving?” she said, just loud enough to be heard over the music. 

Dean looked hesitant about turning it down but did so anyway. “Hm?”

“Driving. You ever get tired?” 

“Sure.”

She didn’t really know why, but she pressed further. “You don’t ever wanna let someone else take over?”

“Who, you?”

She shrugged. “Once in a while, after a job, when you’re fighting to keep your eyes open.”

He cleared his throat. “I’m actually fine.”

“How long we been friends? Five, six years? Been working together for three?” His head cocked to the side like he’d been caught, a tiny smile nagging the corner of his lips. “Can't believe you'd lie to my face like that.” He did smile this time, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. “I’m honestly kind of offended.”

“You’ve driven before.”

“Yeah, when you chuckleheads were incarcerated. Or knocked out. It’s a coin toss these days.” 

“Still not seeing the problem here.” She knew that he could look at her if he really wanted to—the road was completely vacant with nothing but forest on either side—but he kept his eyes glued to the windshield. 

“There isn’t one, necessarily. Just an observation.”

“Gotcha.” And then they went back to sitting in silence, curving up winding paths and conquering the short distance the Chevy’s high beams reached, over and over and over. 

Just as she was about to doze off, searing pain shot through her abdomen. She whimpered and mumbled his name weakly in an attempt to get his attention and just as she conked out, he shouted to her, urgent and desperate and worried enough to make her fight the vertigo.

***

When she came to, she found Dean sitting by the bed, staring at the linoleum floor in front of him. The too-white everything made her uncomfortable; but the two splotches of colour, the two boys who couldn’t look more out of place, prompted a squeeze in her chest. Sam sat further back with his eyes closed, using a row of vinyl chairs as a makeshift bed. He held an icepack to his temple where are large cut peeked out, but appeared otherwise unharmed. 

“You brought me to a fucking hospital?” she hissed as the older brother's head snapped up.

“Y/N—” 

“Whatever it is, I’m sure we could’ve taken care of it.” She fussed about with the sheets and feeding tubes invading her personal space, bent on getting up and out of there. Dean was at her side in an instant, pressing her down into the mattress and forcing her to stay still for a moment. He was stronger than her, she’d give him that. “What the hell—” she began again and he shook his head to silence her. 

“We can’t handle this one.”

Finally her eyes grew worried and she looked hesitant before asking, “What is it?” 

“Internal bleeding.”

“ _How?_ I barely got hit!” 

Dean pressed his lips together, looking over at Sam who gave the tiniest tilt of his head. He stood up, tall frame wobbling a little, before approaching her. “Bobby thinks it was a spell but he’s still digging.” 

“ _Fantastic._ ” She leaned back, weighing her options. “Kay, well if it’s a spell, being in here isn’t gonna do much.” 

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Sam moved to stop her from pulling out another tube. “It’s slow but it isn’t stopping.” 

“Meaning what, exactly?” 

His eyes flickered up to Dean at her other side and suddenly she felt like monkey in the middle. “Surgery. If it gets to that.” 

“Hold on, back pedal a little. _Surgery?_ If this is a curse or whatever, can we agree that surgery isn’t gonna fix a damn thing? Bunch a stabby metal things pokin’ around in there are probably gonna make it worse.” 

A nurse walked in then, offering her a friendly smile. “How are we doing?”

“Peachy.” Sam cleared his throat, giving her a scolding look that spelled out something about not being rude, before offering the man an apologetic one. “Really, though. I feel fine,” she insisted.

Dean squinted at her dubiously, as the nurse checked her vitals. “No abdominal pain? Headaches? Lightheadedness?”  

She shook her head. “I could eat though.” 

The man looked like he was fighting to remain stoic. “Really? You don’t feel any pain?”

She turned to stare him dead in the eyes, because apparently her telling him once wasn’t enough. “I feel fine.”

He put down his clipboard and reached over her body, startling her enough that she nearly twisted his arm when he tugged at her hospital gown. She felt kind of violated as he bared her body to the brothers who at least had the grace to politely avert their eyes. Deep violet bruises protruded along her stomach and her breathing stuttered at the sight. She caught Dean’s wince and almost threw up right there. The nurse covered her again and she had to will herself not to bring the sheets up around her shoulders. “If the pain increases, call someone in and we’ll begin operating. Until then, there’s still a possibility that it stops on its own.”

As he walked out, she looked between the boys pleadingly. “Get me outta here. I don’t need an operation.”

Sam pursed his lips, trying to level with her. “Come on, Y/N. It won’t be so bad.”

“No, you don’t understand. I’m _fine_. I don’t feel a thing.”

“That ain't what it sounded like in the car,” Dean spoke up, eyes serious and mouth taut. 

“Yeah, well, now I’m okay.” She stood, ripping out plastic from her veins and standing up before anyone could intercept her. “Where’d they put my clothes? This thing’s way too breezy for me…” And then she stopped in her tracks, eyes fluttering. Dean moved to steady her, calling her name to keep her conscious. Blood trickled out of her mouth onto the coarse fabric and stark floor, her head hanging low.  

“I got you, Y/N. I got you.”

*** 

Inside the room, a passed out Y/N lay on a bloodied bed with monitors and an IV hooked up to her, doctors bustling about. Outside, a dismayed Dean Winchester and apprehensive Sam Winchester argued.

“She’s got a point, could be a trickster. What if they start messin’ around in there when there’s nothin’ that’s supposed to be messed with?” 

“So what, we’re just supposed to let her bleed out? What if it’s a hex bag? If it’s real and we do nothing…”

Dean ran a hand over his face. “Just… it doesn’t seem right. She’s fine and out of nowhere some blood vessel nicks?”

“How long you figure we got? You go check the car, I’ll call Bobby. Maybe it’s somethin' else.” 

“We’re a little crunched, don’t you think? They could start operating any minute. We can’t just vamoose.” He turned to the small divide of glass in the door, watching the medical professionals call out stats and run tests.

“Exactly, we don’t have that long. We gotta move, Dean.”

He shook his head, sucking air past his teeth before acquiescing to his brother’s insistence. “Fine. Okay, let’s go.”

He all but tore Baby apart searching for signs of witchcraft. When he could swear on his life there was nothing in that car, he scrambled back to the hospital room to find her awake. 

Her eyes held something akin to despair, a kind of vulnerability he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her sport. It didn’t suit her. “Please don’t let ‘em operate, please, Dean. I don’t—I can’t—” Her voice caught and she shook her head.

He sighed, genuinely asking, “What would you do if it were me?”

She went silent. 

“God, you’re shaking like a leaf.” He moved hair from her face, pulling away just as quickly.

“I hate doctors. Always have. The thought of them prodding around in there…” 

“They’ll put you under and you won’t feel a thing, okay? And me an' Sam’ll be waiting for you when you get out.” 

“Swear it. You won’t leave.” 

He knelt, spectacular green eyes meeting hers. “We won’t leave.” 

***

“We gotta leave,” urged Sam, joining his brother outside the operating room.  

“We what, now?” 

“Bobby thinks he found something. Back in Missouri, we didn’t gank the ghoul.”

“What’d ya mean, we didn’t gank the ghoul? I saw Y/N chop the head clean off that sucker.”

“That’s because it wasn’t a _ghoul_. Come on, I’ll explain on the way.”

“Whoa, Sam, hold on. I promised we’d be here when she wakes up.” 

Sam clenched his jaw, evidently not in the mood for sentiments. “If we don’t kill this thing, it kills her. Doesn’t matter how many surgeries, she’ll keep bleeding out.” 

Dean looked winded, clutching the ledge of the room’s window. “You can’t do it alone?”

The younger Winchester cocked his head, as if to say _what do you think?_

It was their best option, Dean convinced himself as he pulled out onto the curb. Surely, she’d be okay.

* * *

 

“Shit, thanks for the save,” Dean panted, weeks after her leaking blood vessels had been sealed and sutures lined a gash on her belly that threatened to scar.

Y/N ignored him, setting the Rougarou (currently making Sam’s life hell) on fire. He dropped to his knees, gasping relief as she pivoted to hack the head off another. 

Dean struggled to catch his breath, watching her take out monster after monster. “Jesus fuck,” he muttered, unable to mask his surprise.  

“Yeah, go screw yourself,” she grumbled, dropping a busted shotgun and walking out the front door, leaving a wake of bodies behind.

***

“Hey, Y/N, we’re heading out. Need anything?”  

“Not from you.” 

Sam pursed his lips. “I’ll pick up ice cream.”

***

“We’re getting take out. Whaddya want?”

“Already ate.”

“How ‘bout desert?” Dean bid. 

She swivelled in her chair, holding up the tub Sam had bought her days prior. “Careful, you might pull a muscle trying so hard.” 

***

“How you feeling?” It felt like she’d been cornered by a tree in their tiny kitchen but she kept up a bored expression. 

“Great, thanks,” she muttered, ducking under his arm and managing to keep all her glass’ contents inside their confinement, although she did have half a mind to splash the water in his face and dunk the ice down his pants.

“You’re lying, Y/N,” he called.

“You’re dead to me, Sam,” she retaliated impassively, heading down the hall. 

***

“How ‘bout a movie tonight?”

Her face screwed up and she turned, scrutinizing him like she wasn’t quite sure what he was asking. “A  _movie_?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“When do we ever watch movies?”

“Point taken. We should though,” Dean volunteered, silently begging her to stop glowering at him like that.  

“Well, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m working a job.” She gestured to the open laptop where several pages of lore were displayed. “Watch one with Sam.”

“How many times do I have to say I’m sorry? What did you want me to do? We needed to make sure we killed it—”

“—to save me, yes, I feel like I’ve heard it about a thousand times.”

“Then why are you still upset?”

“Because you had another choice. You could’ve been there for me when I needed you and I could’ve helped in Missouri. But you guys _had_ to be the knights in shining armor.” 

“That’s what you think this is about? That I’m so damn cocky I dropped everything to play hero? I dropped everything because I never wanted to see you like that again, do you understand me?”

She stood, stomping over to him and lowering her voice to a dangerous octave. “Talk down to me like that again and you’ll be the one in a hospital bed.”

He did his best to speak evenly. “We didn’t know that you’d be okay right away. We didn’t even think the surgery would work, Y/N. This has nothing to do with hubris.” 

“You could’ve left a damn note,” she whispered, shoving him lightly.  

“I’m sorry. Honest to god, I am. We thought it was the right call.” She nodded, straightening and only then did he notice the arm folded over her stomach. His gaze fell there and suddenly he felt like she was playing defence. “How is it?”  

“I want 'a rip out every single stitch but…”

“Jeez, say it like you mean it.”

She offered a considering smile and headed back to the laptop while he lingered in her room, taking it in. They often gathered in the communal parts of the bunker or, on the off occasion, the room he shared with Sam but her private quarters tended to remain… well, private. There was a small picture frame on her desk of she and her father and Dean had to fight to avoid staring too long. She’d still had bangs and a gap tooth in that picture and her father looked so much younger than he remembered him. It’d been tough love growing up for her too, though not nearly as good-little-soldier-esque, he figured. But now both of those men were gone and, trauma or not, things stayed in the past. 

He recognized a knitted pillow as the one keepsake she cherished from her mother, the once pink wool turned a muted beige and straggly buttons decorating the seams. A necklace he had the honour of seeing her wear maybe a couple of times a year sat neatly on the bedside table, along with a collection of plastic water bottles and an antique lamp she bought for roughly four dollars at a thrift shop a few states over. Her room could’ve been anyone’s. It was plain and sad, rotting, mismatched-furniture and old trinkets claiming the space, but it was so undeniably her that Dean’s chest sort of swelled. It was all the little things that he recognized as her possessions but never imagined a proper place for. And here they were, all together, with her at the centre of it. 

He put his hands on the jean jacket draped over the back of her chair, heart faltering at the overwhelming ambient of _Y/N,_ and peered over her shoulder at the screen. “That’s a pattern if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Right? Can’t believe no one else picked up on this.”

“We’ll get on it tomorrow.”

She shook her head, bookmarking a page before downloading a PDF. “Don’t want any surprises. I’m gonna try and figure out what it is before we get there.”

“Come on, that could be a million things. You’ll be up all night.”

She shrugged and that was when he realized that she held herself accountable. It was a slip up, a ‘round two’ the team was unaware they were participating in, and it was the fault of poor research.

He wasn’t sure why but he dropped his chin on her head, inhaling subtly. He wasn’t good with this whole talking thing and although he knew she and Sam had heart-to-hearts fairly often, he couldn’t bring himself to partake. Things always either came out wrong or crystal enough to make him come to terms with just how weak he was. And Dean Winchester did not like to feel weak. He was a backbone, someone the world could lean on and if he crumbled, so did everyone else. So he didn’t crumble. Not ever.  

“Can I see?” he said quietly.

“What?”

“The stitches.”

He felt her stiffen, but didn’t make a move to pull away. Instead, he moved his hands from the back of the chair to her shoulders, down her arms and to the sides of her t-shirt, just sort of holding her in a way he hoped was comforting. She nodded from beneath his chin and he slowly lifted the fabric up. It was a messy line below her ribs, red and ugly and a strand of material woven through it, sloppily holding the wound closed. Who was he to critique, really, he likely would’ve done a worse job, but he couldn’t say he wasn’t surprised. He’d always thought hospital procedures were a little more… white-collared.  

“Lie down for me?” His voice came out low and soft, a timbre he hadn’t heard from his throat in… ever.

He didn’t know why, but she complied. Maybe this whole cushiony voice thing had its perks. 

Dean had a knack for taking care of people. He wasn’t exactly sure it was a gratification, per se, but after taking care of Sammy for so many years, he’d picked up a thing or two. And when someone needed looking after, he was at their side without a second thought. Hell, maybe without even a first; it’d become a sort of instinct. That said, when he found himself dripping cold water along her stomach, gently dragging a washcloth over the area, he recognized this side of himself. She, however… 

“Wow, you must feel _really_ guilty.” He glanced at her. “If you’re cleaning my stitches for me.”

“Yeah, well…” He dabbed a towel on her skin while she clenched her fists to avoid flinching, then smoothed a layer of Vaseline over the incision, something he would never do for himself, she noted. “I’d give it about another day 'til these come off. Don’t wanna leave ‘em there too long.”

She nodded, unable to form proper words. Her mouth felt like froth and she had the sudden urge to spit in the hopes of avoiding figuratively gushing all over him. As an alternative, she swallowed, propping herself up on her elbows and thanking him.  

“So? How ‘bout some Clint Eastwood?”

“How about some Johnny Depp and you can go fuck yourself?”

Dean’s lips curled into an approving frown. “Touché.” 

* * *

 

They didn’t get many days off and though today had been no exception, the case had gone fairly smooth, so they had the night off. Y/N had spent all last night researching after _Pirates of the Caribbean_  and it’d paid off; zero mishaps. Dean found her lounging in the motel’s stale pool after hours, _Hotel California_ playing softly through her phone’s speaker. 

She cracked an eye open as he approached and as her gaze fell lower, she howled with laughter. “Gift shop had a limited selection, huh?” 

He grumbled, wondering how she’d managed to score a cute black bikini while he got stuck with god-awful neon orange and lime green swim trunks. The water was warmer than he expected it to be and he sank lower in it to counteract the cooling night air. Some bird chirped in a nearby tree and Dean nearly threw a rock in its general direction. _Go to sleep, bird._

He hummed, murmuring the lyrics and venturing out around the shallow end. The water reached just below his nose as he crouched low, observing her from the six feet or so away, like some kind of pervy hippo. She’d tilted her head back against the edge in her previous position, the water rising to her neck where it lapped softly, courtesy of the jets. Or wind. She looked genuinely relaxed, an expression he didn’t think he’d ever seen her wear. And suddenly, under the moonlight, she looked really pretty. 

He’d always known she was attractive, at least to him she was. She was sweet-faced with features that didn’t quite belong together but somehow managed to fit. It was never a supermodel, flawless kind of pretty—all cascading locks and sparkling eyes. No, instead he found exotic, distinguishing characteristics and a leather jacket kind of beauty. It was never cliche or trying too hard, it was always just... her. The jacket was too big—her dad’s—and she didn’t wear it often. They didn’t have time for a lot of make up on the road, so she had to make due without, though he knew she still kept a small bag full for special occasions. And special occasions they were. The boys owned suits to play pretend (or in most cases, the impersonation of feds) but she usually excused herself from those formalities. So when they had an event, something she couldn’t twist or writhe her way out of, and she dug the heels out of the back of her closet and bought a cheap dress at a nearby mall and did something with her hair and relearned to apply eyeshadow… Hell, that was a treat for everyone. 

And in every day life, sometimes she’d make a face or crack a meaningful joke or the light would hit her funny or maybe she’d fight a little too hard, and Dean would get tingling in his gut and hot flashes beneath his skin. This was one of those times.  

Without lifting her head or opening her eyes, she spoke softly. “Where’s Sam?”

“Still in the room geeking out over the track records. Actually, now that I think about it, he’s probably jerkin’ off.” 

“Aaaand that’s more than I wanted to know.”

“What I was gonna say is how well it went today. For a change, ya know?”

“Yeah, my cases've been shitshows lately. I oughta just let Sam take care of leads.” She blinked, squirming.

“That’s not what I—”

“I know what you meant. I’m just…”

He quirked an eyebrow, offering her a look of masked unease. “Still blaming yourself for that one?”

The opening chords to _Piano Man_ began playing and suddenly he pictured her in a tight red dress, hair done up, sitting at a booth in some posh lounge. She tilted her head to smile at him and he swallowed. As the harmonica joined, she swayed, lifting herself from the edge and wandering over. She mouthed the lyrics to him, a plea to drop the subject. He’d used this very tactic on her before so he let her have this round. She made her way over, dancing languidly, and raised his hand in hers, motioning for him to spin. He rolled his eyes as he did so, but still a small grin tugged at his lips.   

_He says, "Son, can you play me a memory_  
_I'm not really sure how it goes_  
_But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete_  
_When I wore a younger man's clothes"_

There was some kind of bubble in his chest rising up to his throat and it was enough to make him want to change the song. It reminded him of his father, or at the very least of his era but his focus was on her now, and the gleam of sadness in her eye. Still, she smiled at him, rueful and longing, and slowly his arms came around her. They sang quietly, faintly swaying beneath the water. Goosebumps rose on her exposed skin and she shuddered softly, dropping her chin to his shoulder. 

_Sing us a song, you're the piano man_  
_Sing us a song tonight_  
_Well, we're all in the mood for a melody_  
_And you’ve got us feelin' alright_  

“Wasn’t your fault,” he whispered. “We never know what we’re up against."

“Coulda been one of you,” she murmured in return. “I’m lucky I got off with a scratch.”

At the mention of it, Dean traveled in between them to her abdomen, running gentle fingers along the scar. “This one turned out okay,” he reminded her. “Sometimes things go south. Sometimes we got Cas.” 

She laughed through her nose, sending warm air to his skin and causing goosebumps of his own. 

_Now John at the bar is a friend of mine_  
_He gets me my drinks for free_  
_And he's quick with a joke or to light up your smoke_  
_But there's someplace that he'd rather be_

_He says, "Bill, I believe this is killing me"_  
_As the smile ran away from his face_  
_"Well I'm sure that I could be a movie star_  
_If I could get out of this place"_

“Sam didn’t take care of this one? Usually you guys figure it out.” 

“Eh… things are still a little rocky. Don’t think you’re off the hook either.” 

“Oh, and just when I was starting to get comfortable.”

She smiled in his shoulder, then pressed her lips in an almost kiss. “All I know is it’s not going to happen again,” she sighed, bumping her nose against him and slowly rising up. “I’m not touching another hospital with a ten foot pole.”

“They’re supposed to help people. Why’re you so against them?”

“I was eighteen the first time I stepped foot in one.” Dean nodded grimly. He knew about half of this story. “They _were_ supposed to help. But instead they killed him.” 

He remembered. They’d attended the funeral and although his father had managed to maintain his composure, despite an old friend in the coffin, there was a teenager in the corner playing with her fingers and shivering, small gasps breaking through sobs. Dean remembered thinking that she was alone now and that if anything ever happened to his dad, he’d probably just call it quits. Turned out, life had a cruel sense of humour. He sucked in a breath through his teeth now, searching her eyes, despite her faraway gaze. “Y/N—” 

“I’ve heard every line in the book, every excuse made for them, okay? Bottom line is they slipped up and it cost him his life.”

He cradled her head to his chest. “I’m so sorry.”

He felt her still and then relax a little, like they were words she could tolerate. “They won’t cost you yours, though. Not before they’re supposed to, at least.”

He wanted to tell her that it was inevitable they end up beaten or broken, only a matter of time before the next near-death experience slash hospital visit and that this was the hunting life. You either accepted it or you went home. He cleared his throat. “Nah, someone wants us around. We’ve been saved, like… a _stupid_ amount of times.” 

_And the waitress is practicing politics_  
_As the businessmen slowly get stoned_  
_Yes, they're sharing a drink they call loneliness_  
_But it’s better than drinkin' alone_

“Thank you for going back to Missouri.” He dipped his head as she spoke, brushing his nose against her ear and letting her pull back a little. “You made the right call. I was just bein—”

He shushed her, planting a kiss to her temple. “It’s okay.”

She nodded gratefully, like she believed for a moment that he really did understand her. There were words lodged in her throat, he knew, but she didn’t say any of them. When she looked at him again, her eyes were glass, the reflection from the pool’s green-tinged lighting shining in them. She was chipped porcelain with a scratched glaze while he was cracked stoneware, rough all around and rudimentary to the untrained eye; they were ceramic, resilient, yet destined to shatter. At the horizon, a stripe of bronze still barely peaked through and above it, the deepest blues. An ombre of ocean filled the sky and higher yet, was a span of navy where clouds were almost indecipherable and stars played hide and seek—maybe a little too well. And in front of him was Y/N carefully studying his expression for accidental spills of his own heartaches. He had half a mind to reach over and increase the volume of Billy Joel, brush her off again and keep everything in its neat little box, buried deep in the confines of his brain, but he didn’t. This time, Dean decided, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if he just spoke over the music.

 

_Oh, la la la, di da da_  
_La la, di da da da dum_

_Sing us a song you're the piano man_  
_Sing us a song tonight_  
_Well we're all in the mood for a melody_  
_And you got us feeling alright._

_***_


End file.
